


Imagine: Castiel using the fact that you get possessive and turned on when women flirt with him to his advantage.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [30]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Humor, Jealousy, Suggestive Themes, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 23:06:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13914078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Sister!Winchester Reader





	Imagine: Castiel using the fact that you get possessive and turned on when women flirt with him to his advantage.

“He’s at it again,” Sam murmurs, wagging an arched brow toward the bar. “You think he has any idea what that does to her?”

Dean swivels on his stool in time to see Castiel chivalrously wave and plaster an exaggerated courteous smile over the stolid geography of his face in response to the unabashed flirtation of a beautiful buxom blonde seated at the far end of the counter. “You think he _doesn’t_ , Sammy?” Dean retorts, an appreciative smirk sprawling across his features. “Just be thankful we didn’t get stuck with adjacent rooms this time.”

“Come on man, you actually _approve_ of this? We’re talking about our sister here. This kind of thing drives her-”

“Shit, _shit_!” Dean spots you first, arms flailing as he spins around, muttering through a clamped jaw, “Bogie, incoming, ten o’clock.”

Sam flinches in alarm and nearly falls off his stool.

Dean strives to look preoccupied with sweeping up the hollow peanut shells scattered on the table. He tosses several of the salty husks in his mouth for show so he has an excuse not to speak. Conversations surrounding the convoluted intricacies of your relationship with your celestial boyfriend are the one occasion in life where he prefers to remain uncharacteristically mum.

“Hey guys, where’d Cas go?” you ask, draping a languid arm across Dean’s shoulder upon your approach and noting the angel’s empty perch with a nod of your head.

Dean mumbles something incoherent, aims a thumb backward at the bar, and chews louder.

Sam grits his teeth and squeezes out a forced small smile for your benefit. Glaring at his brother when you look away in a silent accusation of, “ _Seriously, Dean_ ,” his hazel eyes glint their betrayal.

In response, Dean shrugs and mimes a guileless grin suggesting it’s not his problem nor is it Sam’s either – you’re a Winchester, after all, and fully equipped to handle the angel yourself.

You follow the direction of Dean’s gesture to see Cas casually leaning against the bar waiting for the round of drinks he ordered. Well, that is to say, you see what you _can_ see of him. There’s a mystery blonde dawdling dangerously close to him. _Dangerous_ because if she gets any closer in proximity to your angel you’re going to trudge over there to tear her a new one starting with her natty hair extensions.

She audaciously reaches out to pet his arm and dissolves into a fit of laughter as his mouth moves to politely answer whatever mindless poison spews from her tongue.

“Ow!” Dean grumbles as your nails dig deep into the rounded firm mass of his delts.

Sam shoots him an _I told you so_ scowl.

“I leave him alone for two minutes! _Two_!” you grumble, Dean’s flesh now a painful knot of muscle in your fist. You manhandle your brother by the collar as if it’s somehow his fault women seem to find your boyfriend universally irresistible and can’t help throwing themselves at him whether you’re by his side or not. “Who the _hell_ is _she_?” you spit, breath scorching fire across Dean’s wincing face.

Sam simply stares, gaping and grateful for the approximately 2.5-foot width of table separating him from your immediate wrath.

“That’s Wendy,” Castiel helpfully supplies as he sneaks up to clatter three glittering condensation-frosted glass beer bottles and a whisky, neat, to the middle of the table.

“ _Wendy_?” you repeat in a low growl, your pupils aglow with jealous indignation. You snatch at and down the throat searing whisky in a single quaff.

Released from your death grip, Dean rubs at his injured limb. Winking, he mouths the name _Wendy_ at his brother.

Sam stifles an amused snort.

“Yes, Wendy,” the angel confirms with a confused tilt of his head. “She’s in town visiting her grandmother in the hospital. She seems very nice. On account of her grandmother’s early bedtime and the constraints of visiting hours, she informs me she’s free every evening this week.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s _free_ all right. Free and loose,” you gripe. “Wendy, a freaking _saint_ if I ever saw one.”

Cas squints, sparing a searching glance back at the blonde.

She smiles at him from across the room, flicks her hair, and licks her pink lips suggestively slow.

You groan in vexation and scoop up the angel’s discarded trench coat.

Returning his sparkling blue regard to you, he states, “I can assure you she’s no saint. I-”

“Save it angel, I’m not interested in bible study. I’ve got a different kind of lesson in mind for you. We’re leaving. _Now_.” You punch the garment to his chest, pluck at his tie, and drag him toward the exit.

“What kind of lesson?” he rasps, all earnestness and virtue as he stumbles, not really stumbling, to keep up with the urgency of your pace.

“As if he doesn’t know,” Dean muses to Sam when you’re well out of earshot.


End file.
